Nowhere to run
no place to hide.
Just standing still
crying inside.
Thinking how it
could have been.
But never looking, too
far ahead, as there's
no roof above my head.
Daily searching for
milk and bread.
To take it back to
my makeshift bed.
In a doorway, or
on a bench, even under
a hedge, covered in old
boxes from head to toe.
That is where I
lay my head.
God it's cold I
think I'm dead.
I'm still alive
I've just woke up
it's pouring with rain
I'm soaking wet.